The Tide

Six hours it voiceless sank along the shore In the soft cloud-girt eve; turned in its bed, And dreamed of other lands. But when the night Grew to its stillest, and none knew thereof, There crept across the world a wind-like sigh-- Sweet breath of waking lips--that rose, and passed, And died along the night, and rose again Ineffable. And Ocean knew once more Her crescent tide-mark with its golden range Of fretted sands and shell-impearlèd weeds, And once more, joyous, filled with rolling waves Her creeks and inland waterways; then paused, And, wondering at herself, sank back to rest, And dreamed again the dream that has no end.

January, 1870.